


Misfits

by Frangipanidownunder



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-11
Updated: 2017-05-11
Packaged: 2018-10-30 18:48:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10882794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frangipanidownunder/pseuds/Frangipanidownunder
Summary: This was written in an hour and a half and no doubt has no narrative arc or flow, but I may have had a glass of wine. It was in response to a request for a fic about Scully and Mulder at her high school reunion and what they might get up to in the lockers. It is definitely NSFW…





	Misfits

They were like Tim Burton characters in a Doris Day musical; like Arnold Schwarzenegger in Shakespeare; like Dolly Parton in the amphitheatre at Verona. Misfits. But it was too late to back out. They were in the hall and people were already rushing towards them with arms opened wide, threatening bodily contact and sycophantic introductions.

Mulder pushed his hands deep into his pockets. Pockets in black suit pants, into which was tucked a white dress shirt complete with black silk tie, and over which he wore a black tuxedo. His last conscious thought, before he was hugged to within an inch of his life, was that they both looked the kind of formal that would frighten people into keeping their distance. Scully’s long black dress with black silk shawl was eye-poppingly sexy but also spoke of class and refinement. But, to no avail. They were hugged, squeezed and ruffled by a smiling pair of Pantone hulks. She was dressed in cerise and silver and he was in a bright turquoise ensemble that was a size too small.

“Dana, honey. Didn’t you get the note about color? Perhaps your mother forgot to mention it. It’s so good to see you, you look so thin. Are you eating enough? Is she eating enough? I’m Marcelle,” she stuck a hand out to Mulder. His knuckles were crushed by the weight of her costume rings.

Scully dipped her head and chuffed out a bemused laugh. “My mother insisted we come, but unfortunately didn’t insist on telling us the finer details of the event. Marcelle, Randy this is Fox Mulder, my…partner.”

Randy pumped Mulder’s arm for the fifth time and smacked him across the back. “That’s a word they use in the law, Dana. You can use boyfriend here. You’re among friends, remember.”

“Oh, he’s not my…”

“Fox, what kind of a name is that, honey?” Marcelle pinched his cheek and tears of pain pricked at his eyes. “You look more like a sad and lonely puppy, doesn’t he, Dana? You always did know how to pick the ones who need rescuing, didn’t you? Have a drink.”

She pressed a drink, the same lurid shade of green as the balloon arch over the ice sculpture table, into Scully’s hand and got a nuclear blue one for Mulder before spying another couple walking in and running off to perform the same ritual greeting.

Mulder sniffed the liquid, shrugged and knocked it back in one go. He grimaced and got himself another one. Raspberry red. “They get better the more you have,” he said to Scully.

She sipped at hers and turned full circle. “This place is not how I remembered it. And I can’t believe my mother didn’t tell us about the color thing. How embarrassing.”

“We look like FBI agents,” Mulder said, smirking.

“And people think we’re an item.”

“How embarrassing,” Mulder said, smirking.

She downed her drink. “Would that be embarrassing?”

He chewed his bottom lip and gave a short shake of his head. “No, that’s not what I meant. No, Scully.”

She walked to the food tables and popped an olive in her mouth. “I’m sorry I got you into this, Mulder. This is truly awful. I can’t remember anybody’s names and I can only barely recognise their faces.”

He scooped some hummus onto a bread stick and smiled. “You wait until they all start asking you the three standard questions of a high school reunion.”

“And what are they?”

“Are you married, how many children do you have, and what do you do for a living. If you can’t answer them right, it’s all pauses and judgmental nodding.”

“Voice of experience, Mulder?”

He flushed. “I did…I went to mine. A few years ago.”

“You never mentioned it.” She chewed on a stick of celery.

“I didn’t answer the questions right, Scully.”

The 1980s synthesized music got suddenly louder and couples twisted and turned on the small dance floor. Mulder felt pleasantly light-headed as Scully yelled over the beat to a squat balding man.

“No, we’re not…no, not a stay-at-home mom. I’m an FBI agent. No, not admin, a field agent. Yes, I do have a gun. Yes. I have killed people. That’s the fun part of the job.”

The man paled and waved at someone across the dance floor.

“Wilson Tuckey. Had a crush on me way back when he had hair. I don’t think I’m his type any more, Mulder.” She pulled a sad face and held up her empty glass. “I don’t think I’m anybody’s type any more. And I don’t think I’m drunk enough to bear any more of these conversations.”

Mulder gave her a purple drink this time. She giggled a little. “I always wanted purple DMs when I was younger but my mom wouldn’t let me buy them. Of course, Missy just went right out and bought herself a pair, but her feet were bigger than mine and she wouldn’t let me borrow them. One night, when she was out with Robbie or Bobby or both of them,” she sipped the drink again, “I went into her room and put them on. I was wearing this god-awful frill-necked flannelette nightie and pulled on three pairs of socks, but when I tied up those laces, I felt so cool. You know?”

She looked up at him and her eyes were wet and her cheeks pink. “You’re the coolest chick I know, Scully. You cut up dead people, you face down mutants and monsters, you give Walter Skinner what-for and you stick with me through conspiracies and mysteries and alien goo.” He lifted his glass and chinked hers. “Here’s to Dana Scully, queen of cool, even without her purple DMs.”

Her laugh filled his ears. “I don’t think purple DMs would look much good with this dress.”

“Those shoes look perfect with that dress, Scully,” he said, moving nearer. “You look perfect. The dress, the shoes, the shawl, the earrings, this necklace…”

He lifted it with his fingers and she sucked in a breath at the brush of his fingers against the skin on her chest.

“Thank you, Mulder. You look handsome too. You always do, but this suit is a great fit and your shoes, they’re new and I can’t believe I’m going to say this, but would you like to dance?”

He looked at the crowded dance floor and grinned at the swirling kaleidoscope of fabrics. “We might not light it up quite like your high school buddies here, but our special monochrome brand of cool might cut a swathe of serious through this sea of outrageous frivolity.”

“Have you had too much to drink, Mulder?”

“I should hope so. There is no way one could remain sober in this situation. No offence, Scully.” He took her hand and led the way.

“None taken. And I’m tipsy too. I blame my mother.”

“I love your mother. Your mother is the reason you are here. There will be no damning of the saintly Margaret Scully.”

They swayed to Luther Vandross’ So Amazing and REO Speed Wagon’s Keep on Loving You and when the DJ played Elvis’ The Wonder of You she fell onto Mulder’s chest as he warbled the lyrics into her hair. The miasma of color faded from her periphery and in that moment there was only Mulder, only his black suit and his white shirt and his floppy hair and his mysterious eyes and his angled jaw and his smile and his warm embrace and his cologne and his singing. He filled her senses and she felt brighter than her black dress; vibrant and alive, bold.

She let his hand fall down further. Encouraged it even. She lifted her face to his and he dipped his mouth to hers. His breathing quickened.

“Were you a good student or a naughty student, Scully?”

“I smoked a few joints, I wagged a few classes. I got straight As, though,” she whispered. “Why do you ask?”

The locker rooms were in a different building. Which was handy, but which also required top notch detective skills and FBI resources – flashlight, pick-lock, brute force. The smell of stale sweat, the sharp scent of deodorant, the mold festering in the corners. It was revolting, really. But it was also illicit and sexy as hell.

He shucked off his jacket. She unbuttoned his shirt. He laid her shawl on one of the benches and started with the zipper on the back of her dress. She wriggled out of it as he unbuckled his belt and dropped his pants. When she stood before him in black lacy balconette bra, matching panties and sheer thigh highs, he nearly lost his mind. She let her gaze linger over the bulge in his boxers and she did that damned thing with her tongue and her lips and he rushed forward, grabbing her under the arms and pulling her so close that their combined energy was enough to light up a small town.

“Fuck, Scully. You are so beautiful,” he said, pressing kisses on to the swell of her breasts. “Why did it take your mother to get us to do this?”

“That sounds so wrong, Mulder, oh god, yes, right there…and I’m not sure this is exactly what she had in mind.”

She hooked a thigh round his and rubbed her centre over his throbbing cock.

“Where’s the weirdest place you’ve ever had sex, Mulder?”

He popped open her bra and suckled on a nipple, eliciting a heady bout of groaning from her.

“Graveyard, maze garden in a stately mansion, under the well-dressed tables of a high society wedding marquis, on a snooker table in a Surrey village pub. Are you sorry you asked, Scully?”

He was panting now and he lowered her to the bench, breasts bobbing and legs apart. He pulled down his boxers and she grasped his cock, running her thumb over the head and pulling on the shaft with the anatomical precision of Dana Scully MD.

“I guess Phoebe was a wild ride,” she said.

“She was something, fuck Scully, that feel soooo good.”

“I once gave a lecturer a blow job in the cold store at the training facility. He turned blue.”

Mulder laughed but when she sunk her mouth over his cock he choked and grabbed fistfuls of her hair. “You are frighteningly good at this, Scully.”

She ran her lips up and down, trailing her tongue and nipping him with her teeth so that he rolled back on his heels and rocked forward on his toes. His leg muscles flexed and she dug her nails into his bare buttocks. He was on the brink. She looked up at him and he just about managed to blink.

“You want to fuck me, Mulder?”

His answer was lost in the rushing of skin against skin, slipping and sliding and heat and moaning and the frenzy of loving that left them both sheen with sweat and delirious with ecstasy.

She lay on the bench, her head in his lap, her face against his cock that still twitched with the memory. He stroked the creamy skin of her stomach, cupped a perfect breast.

“Do you think anybody missed us?”

“Not a chance,” she said, giggling.

The movement of her cheeks sent him overboard again and he was hard in an instant.

“Really, Mulder?”

“It must be the e-numbers in those cocktails.”

She sat astride him and lowered herself gently until they fit together again. “As a scientist, I have to say that e-numbers in food and drink beverages should be better regulated. But as a high school reunion party-goer with the most handsome partner stroke boyfriend in the room, I’m pretty happy with the side-effects of the chemicals.”

“Just pretty happy, Scully?”

She threw her head back. “Very happy, Mulder. I’d say we’ve gone from misfits to good fits in just a few hours, Mulder. I’m very happy.”

He thrust up and she caught her tongue between her lips.

He was very happy too. Very, very happy.


End file.
